


Mycroft's Dilemma

by Rarepair



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fellatio, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Smut, jim and mycroft, jimcroft - Freeform, lots of sounds, surprise night time visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rarepair/pseuds/Rarepair
Summary: Moriarty sneaks into Mycroft's home and invades his inner sanctum. What will happen when Mycroft confronts the consulting criminal in his bedroom? Welp, c'mon, this is a smut fic. I think you can guess! :)





	

     Mycroft let out a long sigh. His breath puffed in a cloud against the mirror, obfuscating his view of himself. He rubbed a hand over the glass with a screeching squeak. Temporarily, his blue-grey eyes appeared. His nostrils flared in displeasure at the sight of the bags under his lower lids. He looked tired; actually, more than tired. His façade appeared downright haggard. The overly-hot shower had done little to revive him from his mental and physical exhaustion, it seemed. Rather than thin his blood, the heat had congealed it in his veins.

     With a gruff snort, he snatched a towel from a nearby rod and rubbed it over his damp hair. Then, he sponged himself dry as he strode from his ensuite towards his bedroom. He stopped just in the transition between the two rooms after flicking off the bathroom light. His eyes went sideways to his fireplace. The gas flames fluttered lazily behind the glass front, bathing the room in a warm glow. He squinted at it. He did not recall flipping it on before he started his shower. Then, he saw a flicker of shadow shift and glanced down to where black oxford-clad feet moved beneath his high-backed armchair.

     “I hope you don’t mind but I turned on your fireplace,” came a soft male lilt, “I worried you might catch a chill.”

      Mycroft felt a shiver climb his spine, but it had nothing to do with a draft. He quickly swaddled his hips with his towel and cursed.

      “How did you get in here?” He growled.

     A dark head of slicked-back black hair poked around the edge of the chair. Black brows wagged.

     “Ooh, now if I told you that, you would fix the little security oversight and I wouldn’t be able to surprise you again,” James Moriarty cooed.

     Mycroft’s shoulders tensed and the muscles of his neck went stiff. Trying to keep this particular consulting criminal at arm’s length was like trying to prevent spiders from wriggling into his house in cold weather. No matter how many gaps he had sealed, he and they always found a way to gain access to him.

     “Mr. Moriarty-”

     His visitor frowned. Then, rather indecorously, he grabbed the arms of the chair and began jumping it around. It thumped and banged and teetered.

     “Whoop!” Moriarty’s legs flailed as it nearly tipped over. “Hold that thought!”

     Finally, he wrestled the elegant chair into full view and settled into it again. The fireplace dimly lit one side of his face, casting the other in darkness so that all Mycroft could see of his left orb was the glitter of its rounded surface. Moriarty crossed his legs and smiled cheekily. Then, he waved his hand up and down at Mycroft.

     “Well, this answers one of my many questions about you,” he winked.

     Mycroft folded his arms self-consciously and narrowed his gaze. “And what is that?”

     Moriarty’s chin tilted down. His smile faded from his lips and his dark eyes deepened in intensity.

     “Well, I always wondered whether it was the suit that made the man or the man that made the suit.”

     Mycroft’s eyebrows twitched up. “And?”

     One corner of Moriarty’s lips curved up. “Oh, it is definitely the man.”

     Damn, but if Mycroft’s cock didn’t twitch beneath his towel at the silken timber of his voice. Deep in his torso, his loins awakened. He stretched his neck sideways. He was being played, he knew he was being played. Heat burned up his chest and neck. He inhaled a steadying breath.

      “I would ask what you are doing here, but . . .  you know what, Mr. Moriarty-”

      “James . . . or Jim. I wish you would call me Jim,” he injected breathlessly, “and don’t say you don’t care.  You do. You do.”

      Moriarty pushed up from the chair, smoothed the lapels of his perfectly cut suit down and walked straight towards Mycroft. Mycroft held his breath and squared his shoulders as the smaller man abruptly stopped just inches away. His chin retracted as he gazed down at his pale face with its slashing, winged brows and glittering eyes. He was far more attractive than Mycroft would ever admit aloud.

      “You do care,” Moriarty searched his face, “but you’re weary. You’re defeated. Why? Why? I don’t like it.”

       Mycroft hummed a sigh. “What do you want, James? A win? You’ve won. You found your way into my inner sanctum. Bravo. Now, if you don’t mind, would you get on with threatening whatever it is you want to threaten me with or just . . . I don’t know, kill me. Yes, kill me, why don’t you? I think I have earned a rest.”

      Moriarty heaved in a breath. “I don’t want to kill you. Never that, Mr. Holmes.”

      Mycroft’s lid twitched. Again, he felt a rush of lust to his nether regions.

     “I thought you wanted to be on a first name basis, James.”

      His interloper smirked. He closed his eyes a moment as if he was savoring the words. Then, they popped open again.

      “I’ve always wanted to address you as Myc,” he nodded, “but I imagine that might be too . . . intimate for you, at least, to start. So, Mycroft, you would like to know what I want? Why I’m here?”

      Mycroft nodded slowly. He pressed his lips together.

     James Moriarty licked his lips. “I want to remove that disenchanted mask from your face. I want you to win.”

      Mycroft arched a brow up. His heart beat faster in his chest. Blood whooshed in his ears.

     “How?” He murmured.

      “However you want to win, Mycroft.”

      Mycroft’s chest squeezed. Breaths cycled in shallow dregs from his lungs. He studied the lean face so close to his own. Everything within him battled the urge to give in to his needs. Then, his gaze flicked to James’ lips and their slightly shiny, wet exterior. Again, a tongue darted out and he was lost. His head fell and in the next instant, his lips clumsily sought their target. He hadn’t kissed anyone in what felt like several lifetimes and the contact ripped open every nerve ending in his body like a scythe over wheat stalks. Receptive lips parted beneath his own. Warm hands sought the bare flesh of his torso. He groaned and leaned down into the kiss as excitement swelled his shaft. Tentatively, he slipped a hand around to James’ lower back. When a tongue slipped into Mycroft’s mouth, Mycroft clutched his paramour against his straining erection. James too, was excited.

     The feel of James’ desire dragged Mycroft up and out of the fantasy. What was he thinking? The brat had caused nothing but trouble for him. He pulled his lips back but James’ fingers curled on his sides.

      “Don’t,” he whispered raggedly, “don’t do that.”

      “What?” Mycroft rasped.

      “Think.”

      Mycroft grunted and kissed James again. Then, he felt himself urged in a circle and he was walked back as their tongues tangled. When his legs bumped into the bed, James slid the towel from his waist and pushed him down to a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. Mycroft watched James hastily remove his suit jacket and tie as if he were racing against a clock. All the while, his gaze was fixed on Mycroft. He popped open a button at his throat and started to slink to his knees. Mycroft’s spine straightened. Again, he was gripped with a kind of panic. What they were doing shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t be getting physically intimate with this half-insane individual with a penchant for setting up apocalyptic events. Not to mention, it was a wild indulgence that left him compromised both legally and otherwise.

      Before he could get his limbs to obey, however, James was already upon him. He pushed apart Mycrofts knees, grasped his cock and closed his mouth over the end of it. The sensation was jarring; a shock of wet, warm pleasure that made Mycroft swear aloud. He felt the threads of it shoot deep into his body. His sac compressed and his hips jerked upwards. When James stroked his hand down to the base of him and took him back to his throat, Mycroft’s head fell back. He panted and swore again as he gaped up at his wood paneled ceiling. His thighs jittered and his backside tightened. Then, James began his slow, tortuous rhythm.

     “Huh,” Mycroft breathed, “huh.”

     What James did to him, the slide of his tongue, the pull of his lips, it was a decadence like nothing he had ever felt. Once more, he found himself in awe of the heady sensations James wrought upon his body. The buildup within him was exhilarating, addictive and the tingle of his impending release transported him back to the first time he had ever experienced an orgasm. There had never been anything come as close to that transformative occasion, when his whole body had been consumed by the carnal fire of self-discovery, until that very moment.

     “Mmf,” he snapped his head back to see the top of James head bobbing up and down.

     That last glance did him in. He had not the fortitude to withstand the pleasurable insistence. He warned of his impending release and then let the cascade of sparks ignite an eruption within him. His hips rose from the bed. James didn’t pull back but rather groaned and gripped Mycroft’s thighs. Mycroft cried out as his fluid pushed up and out his shaft, the entire length of it pulsed and tingled as if he could feel every contraction individually. James kept his mouth on him until every last drop of his release was emptied. His throat worked to swallow the fruits of his labors. He raised his head up only when echoing spasms switched through Mycroft’s body.

     He flicked his head back and wiped his mouth. He looked pink and his eyes were a bit red but a satisfied smile played across his lips. He glanced back and forth as if memorizing Mycroft’s features. Then, he looked a bit apprehensive.

     “I . . . I hope you will not regret this, Mycroft,” he murmured.

     Mycroft heaved a breath and slipped a hand behind his lover's neck. His fingers massaged his nape and the soft hairs absentmindedly. He would probably come to regret it, he thought as he lost himself in James’ luminous dark pupils. There would come a time when he knew he would be staring out a rain streaked window wondering why he had ever done something so reckless, but in that instant, he pushed his worries aside. Regret was his future. Contentment was his present.

      For the time being, he would remain in the present.


End file.
